... there is steam in the shower, condensation upon the glass, honey and almond in the air. A little bit of music. A lot of soap. Evidence everywhere that Valan is awake. And you knew that he liked music, but you didn't know that he could sing. And maybe not professionally, like some of your friends -- and even they do not all have the voices of angels, yet Mick Jagger proved you didn't need such a thing as that -- but he can vocalize quite well, that M. Montague...
...and then there was the tick of the glass, the water shutting off... he doing the usual drip-drying. You know his sounds by heart now, do you not, Edward Meurelle? You know it is only one hour down in a two hour process. The Putting Together of Valan Montague. Have you known men so fussy. Well, you know a few do you not...
What will the night make of this. What will it be tonight? More of this glorious nothing? Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. No obligations but the spur of the moment and whatever that might bring you. You once called such a thing boredom. What is it now but happiness...
Your night is still your own to make. Pendulous, time waits upon the hand of your fate, in a state of Beginning. Constant beginning.
There is a car emerging from the southeast, having left the Chunnel behind and eased into the city like a secret held thought, unheard, unseen. The car is beyond sleek, who ever has seen such a thing as this? And it moves along the lighted ways of a tarted up London, the spectacle of an old woman in new, modern clothes....
"I think I'm going to Effington," Edward calls already dressed. A lower-middle class area, north and east. "Pete wants me to see this warehouse that suddenly has occupants," his foice lifts, he backing away from the full-length mirror near the closet. Not bad. Brown and black.
"Is that alright with you? Or, did you still want me to take you to that gallery?" he wonders, hoping you'll let him off the hook on the gallery, but in truth, not minding either activity for the night.
"No, that is fine..." he calls from the bathroom. "I will go to the gallery on my own... I will see you... how about we meet somewhere for a late dinner or drink or ...something." He laughs. Practically date-like. Valan peers out from the bathroom, hair still out of place and wet, but the rest of him dried. He, in only a towel. "Can I see you again?" he purrs, and then he laughs.
"You find me tonight, M. Meurelle. We can meet at the gallery, even, if you like... then decide where after." And he assumes there will be an after, of course. That you will not be out with your friends all night. That you will carve out some time to be on the town with him.
Afterall, he is letting you out of the whole gallery thing...
You know that sound, Edward. Even downstairs and down the street, what else sounds like that? Something midway between car and jet. A sportscar. A very nice sportscar. Not the rumble of the Jaguar. Not the sigh of a Ferarri. This is something more alien. Faster. Its sound unique -- to the point of not having one. It is more the air moving out of the way, than the engine of the car itself.
The car eases, slowing once it hits Knightsbridge. Seeming to float, as it turns down Dannerly Court. Hovering, it seems.
There's no response to your last comment, Valan. Silence. And more silence. As if he didn't hear you...
Valan turns his head. Pausing, listening. The reflection in the glass, curious. Wondering. Ami? Ami? Did you hear me? He turns off the water, and with a towel around his waist and another in his hands he steps out into the bedroom.
"Ami...."
The sound has halted. Abruptly. The ignition killed and there is then the sound of a door opening. Closing. An alarm being activated. Someone is approaching. Can you tell it is someone Old?
William stowes the keys in his coat pocket, black leather cut to end beneath the hips. It is, remarkably, the only leather he is wearing tonight, the coat and the matching kidgloves. The sweater is a white, startling for its purity of color -- it must be new -- turtleneck, rather thick of knit. The nights in England and France are still cool, and now mostly wet. It fits against him, as all things do, closely. Indicates, as all things must, the strength that is beneath it. Ending at black wool trousers, specially tailored. As all things he wears are. Clean shaven, bold-eyed, the Last Lion is on your landing. A single simple ringing of the bell to give you warning.
Over a shoulder there is slung a leather bag, satchel-like. Perhaps portfolio. Perhaps suitcase. Who knows.
"Oh, shit," Edward says finally, perhaps not hearing you still. "Quick, turn off the lights!" he says rather animatedly, but not fearful or worried. "A guest," he calls, hands on his hip as he turns to head out of the bedroom.
"When did this get to be fuckin' Victoria Station?" he calls, voice fading as he walks down the hall, presumably towards the stairs.
Valan laughs, a roll of his eyes. "I am not dressed. I have to see to get dressed, Edward." There is soft protestation there, but even so, he at least dims the light in the bathroom. He'll finish there in a bit, there is yet more to do. "So, we have a guest. Shall we place bets? It cannot be Davydd, we are not fucking on the sofa." Or wherever.
Valan hooks a finger under the towel at his waist and with a tug it is swung aside. Boxers are next, silken as always. And then he wanders to the wardrobe. You are of course gone by then.
"I will be down in a moment!"
Make that an hour, you know how he is....
Maybe by the time you get to the door, you will know who it is. Maybe you will know by the time you descend the stairs. He is not making himself a secret. And it can't possibly be Davydd, of course, you realize. Not just for the 'feeling' on the air, but for the fact that the doorbell isn't chimed ad infinitum or ad nauseum.
The sigh is audible to anyone close by. Not distress for whom it is, just that it's anybody at this stage. When did I get so popular?
For you, dear visitor, there is the sound of feet in the foyer. Familiar that. Right along with the faintest sound of a lock being released. The door swings open, and Edward stands there, dressed to leave for the evening. Brown slacks, black shirt, brown suede jacket.
"Well, cos..." he says, not bursting from his skin to see you, but content all the same. Edward smiles and moves aside, expecting you'll come inside, of course.
For the sigh, a smile...
And you can see it, perching there. A moment, and it is a grin at your expense. A grin of that mouth that makes the world of men nervous and women anxious for other reasons. "Ah, I have interrupted you," William murmurs, the grin trailing even as he looks to you, as he enters. You knew he would. "Of course, you must know how giddy this makes me..."
And in the light, how modern he seems. Longer strands of hair cut, very short this. Nothing in the way of his eyes. All the more startling for lack of concealment. Clean-shaven. Looking both more and less Continental than previous. There is something subtle of cologne, even, rather than oils. The shoes are to the dressy end of Doctor Marten's collection. Your cos is damn near London posh. And he is already making his way to your bar, he is going not for wine, nor for brandy, but for scotch.
"So where are we going?" As if he shall tag along, perhaps. Or perhaps it was a royal 'I'. Indigo eyes lift to the sound of feet in motion upstairs. "You and M. Montague going out on the town? Ah, and I hope you do not mind a boarder," ice chimes in the glass, and scotch follows. Dark eyes shift to you and William smiles anew. Whatever could he mean by that?
Edward spins, the door closing behind him. "You didn't interrupt anything, and what?" he blinks. "Boarding?" He laughs, following you to said bar. "You're funny," Edward says, reaching to get his own glass. A conversation always running.
"We're not going anywhere," Edward notes, thud of heavy glass on bar following. "I'm going to Effington for some recon. Valan is going to an opening, I think," he says, nose turning up at Scotch. Foul shit. He bends, looking for something else in the open-sided cabinet.
William laughs along with you. "How comfortable is your couch, ami?" Words can be plucked and old conversations can be new again, reborn, renewed, restored. And suddenly the expression is beautifully placid. Bland, even. "I like to wake up at five, do you have a servant who comes in to fluff the pillows and make the coffee?" He can't even say it with a straight face. Broad shoulders shake with the laughter and he and his drink, and his laughter, move past you to the sofa.
"Don't let me keep you. So, Valan is going to an opening? So am I. Which one?" Teasing is left behind and the question is of serious curiosity. The satchel, fine Italian leather that, is set aside and he settles on the sofa, sipping scotch. Not bad. He drinks it for the flavored ice, in truth. Resting the glass upon a woolen thigh, he looks to you. Indigo settling, fixing there.
Upstairs, there is the sound of Valan in motion. Still dressing. Moving from the bedroom to the bath again....
What? Edward watches you pass, not laughing. Not upset. Just standing. You are not making much sense. "Um, start over," he says, bringing up a bottle of gin. "Why are you asking me about my couch? Don't you have seven homes in town? Oh, no wait. You have no home in city, Dunross has the homes..." you lazy and cheap bastard. Bah.
"You didn't come here for an opening. In fact, why are you here?" Your conversation is unacceptable. Start over. Edward looks down at his gin, then sets bottle aside. His brows arch as he waits for the real story.
"I can't visit my friend when I am in town?" he says it by rote at this point, as you well know. And you know that is, of course, true. When he is in town, he finds you. One way or another. Sometimes surprising even you with his disappearing tricks, barging in on a poker game, ruining some opportunity you had with , and... yes... even appearing at your doorstep. So suspicious. William takes another swallow of scotch, the half-smile still lingering. His eyes, however. There is truth there, no matter the lies his lips speak. "I am here on business, some of it my own, some of it everyone else's. And, quite frankly, I wanted to get away from my phone, France and Touraine for a night. I needed some fresh air," he lays a large arm across the back of the sofa, a leg coming up, ankle resting over knee. His hand makes a slight gesticulation. "Would you believe boredom?" both eyebrows arch upward and the smile slants. William's eyes sparkling. And then he shrugs.
"There is an artshow I want to see... an auction following. This is first. Then I thought, maybe for amusement's sake I would stay with you. As you so rightly point out that I have no residence of my own in town. Maybe I should move into Parliament," he quips. And then the grin returns.
Hmm. Edward's lips slant, skepticism visible and pointed. He is quiet as he sniffs his gin, then takes a first taste. "Alright," Edward grumbles. "You're on the blasted French side. But no weird tarts," he points at you, accusingly. At least you get a hallway to yourself. Apparently, he can understand about needing some quiet.
"I don't know what show it is," he explains, remaining at the bar that sees all. "Valan will know. Maybe you can go with him," Edward tosses, taking another swallow. "And what's going on over there anyway," he grudingly asks, knowing that he'd rather not get dragged into that one.
"Why thank you. It is my best side," so sayeth the Norman. They may have ruled England, but they weren't exactly keen on living there. At least such could be said for the Angevin thread of that old, old cloak. "And I, of course, will be on my best behavior." A pause, he smirks. "More or less." Another swallow of scotch and then the expression brightens. And you can decipher the look well enough:
You. Letting me take out your man? With my reputation? In my car?
And then he smiles. It can't possibly help his case, he realizes, but you know there is no mark there. He just can't help it that he is always suspected, oui? "Brilliant idea," he motions to you with what remains of the scotch, "M. Montague will be a perfect companion for that. And it will certainly be educational. I will make sure he has a good time."
All part of the service...
"In Tours?" There is a gruff to the usually smooth voice. "I am keeping out of it as best I can," he murmurs. Then William shrugs, scotch finished. Ice cube plucked by nimble canines. To be crushed. Nice. "It isn't easy, of course. If I stay out of it, they complain I am an obstacle to the process, that I am remote and removed. That I am not being responsible. If I show up, they complain that I am interfering." Indigo eyes roll and yes... he is disgruntled. "Be glad you are missing it. I've never heard so much whining. I'm prone to homicide..."
Edward's brows rise and fall, depending on his feeling towards your comments. An obstacle? That gets a roll of his eyes. Remote and removed? He offers a mock sigh. Interfering, well, that gets an nod of expected. "You can't win," Edward grins, happy to point out that he is himself, and you are you. He'd rather be himself.
"Well, just so they can't say that I didn't fuckin' tell ya," Edward grumbles, picking up the bottle of scotch and moving around the bar, "I got a call," groan, "...with similiar annoyances. I said that I was not annoyed, for the record, and in fact, didn't care." Just so you know. He lowers bottle to your horizon, offering to pour again. "Suffice to say, I'm ignoring said call." And that's how it got conveyed.
"Let me take a wild guess," not wild at all, "... a Paris prefix... followed upon the heels by an Italian...well." And he leaves it at that. Well. And he has his moments when he controls his temper -- which you know to be legendary when stirred -- and there are moments when he just doesn't do that well. It can be heard in that one, simple syllable of 'well'.
And there it sits. Ice is crushed, decimated really, and then the remainders rattle in the glass as he lifts it, shaking out another. The glass is returned to rest balanced at his crossed leg. "Merci de me dire," he smoothly intones, the French so modern and fluid. The look so even. "I am not attempting to win," just so you know, since people seem to talk to you, "...the right thing will be done." William says that simply. With conviction. And with knowing that, winning aside, he is in the right. He will take that with him. "I have eaten enough crow. One plate is all the world shall get of me." Then there is a clearing breath, and the air loosens the tight knot around him that had for a moment coiled. Control. No gnashed pillows for this Angevin duke.
"I did hear that you were asked to speak with me. Is there anything you ... would like to say, Edward?" Well, when Francesco pays visits in the flesh, how could that be kept secret from him. Henry Percy being altogether too crafty to ever be surprised. "Now's the time," William smiles suddenly, rolling his head over to you. "I'm in a giving mood, I'm looking good, dressed nicely, about to head out on the town for a night of art and money. The Ventrue is vulnerable. Please... if you have something to say of your own volition, and at no other man's request, then... please say it, frere..."
Edward stops, lingering for a moment. Something pendulous and deep. Scotch angles in his hand, a world of worry there.
"Nope," he snorts, turning away. He laughs at himself, knowing that he truly isn't bothered by it all. But it was amusing to hang there, suspended, for an instant.
"Fuck them," Edward offers eruditely, "...some of them should stay out of shit that doesn't directly or even indirectly," meaning this, "...concern them. Nosy bastards." He tosses the bottle on the bar, picking up the gin in trade.
There is laughter, perhaps surprising, and it is rich. It beautifies him when he laughs, when it comes naturally. It lives in his eyes, even as it resides warmly in throat and chest. "Ah, you will never live this down, cousin, the night you could have kicked a Ventrue while he was prone. And it's a large target, mais oui. Not like you not to take the opportunity to get your digs in, but..." his hands come up and at last the empty glass is set aside. "...maybe Love has made you more tolerant," his voice softens upon the joke of it, "...more forgiving for the mistakes of others." Joking aside, William rises with an exhale.
"But I tire of that, I do not want to talk of Tours. I could have stayed in France for that." His eyes drift up the stairs. "Montague!" The Great Norman voice has lost nothing in the passing of centuries, the commander's roar quite healthy. "Stop looking in the mirror, I can hear you staring at yourself.... we are going to be late, even by my terms!"
William half-turns, looking to you. Fishing out his gloves. Dark eyebrows lift in a placid arch and in all seeming serious he wonders, "When would you like me to bring him home? What is M's curfew?"
From upstairs there is silence, just for a moment, and then Valan's voice: "Guillaume? What ...? But...?" And then the resignation. "Alright... yeah, just a second..." Confused is the young man. But things will clear up later.
William is taking me out?
William flashes a grin. Are you certain this is a good idea?
Edward snickers, glad to nurse his gin at the bar. "I wouldn't know," he states, "...he's his own man," he explains, shrugging non-worriedly.
"Just make sure he comes home."
"What's the matter, Meurelle. You never drink gin. Nasty stuffy. Why are you punishing yourself, frere? You are not worried, oui?" He looks incredulous for a moment, then winks. "I will drive safe. I will look out for him, yes? He is in good hands. You are too quiet, cos. And too amenable."
He expected a list of things not to do...
Gloves are on his hands and William pivots his attention between you and the impending arrival of said Montague. "Seriously, if you were going to meet him somewhere or something... I can just drop him off. Or bring him back here. I'm avoiding Kensington tonight. I just want peace and quiet. If I flip on the lights it'll be an invitation ..."
His steps sounds on the stairs, not so much his footfalls but his weight in motion. Valan emerges, dressed... impeccably. A brown overcoat matches the brown trousers, something between amber and sienna. His shirt is a russet red. His Doc Martens are brown and dressy -- rather like William's, in truth. They'll make a good looking couple on the art circuit tonight.
Not that they'll be a couple...well... you know...
Valan looks surprised and amused as he comes down the stairs. "You are going to give me a ride? This is unexpected." He laughs, he moves to you. A kiss, even in front of company. It's William, more family than guest, and so there is nothing hidden. "Maybe you will meet us for a drink? I would like that," Valan says to you, Edward. He looks to William then. "You are going to the same show, what are the odds?"
William smiles. A conquering smile. The smile that comes at the end of victory. A smile of relief and of knowing one's place. Art is his place. "Very high, Montague..."
"What?" Edward blares, arms up and open. "Can't a man have a drink and not care about bullshit?" Nothing to see here, move along. The kiss is met with a tilt of his head, eyes upon William. "You're the one who hates gin. I like gin," finger touching his chest. "You like Scotch. I hate the shit." Or have you forgotten?
"That's fine about Kensington. You can stay on the pastoral side," that French crap. Who decorated this place? "And yeah, ami," voice lowering, "I'll come meet you," both, "...later." A cursory kiss in return.
Man. I wasn't grumpy before. I am now. It's like being poked with toothpicks.
"So, you're going to be late," Edward observes, glancing at his watch. "You'd better fly."
Valan cocks up his eyebrows at that. Hmm. "Okay," he says finally, slowly. A pat upon your back. "Be careful at the warehouse, ami. Call me, yes? When you are done. We will meet you somewhere..." And he is pulling away to go. Well, two birds killed with one stone, right? Both of them will be out of your hair and elsewhere.
Your tirade causes another pair of eyebrows to lift and the expression is half-amused. Jesu, Edward. Who pissed on your good suit? But there's no worry. William merely smirks and turns about. An arm extending for M. Montague, gesturing outside. Keys to the MacLaren are out, chiming, and he begins to follow the young man.
"Have fun storming the castle, Meurelle," Plantagenet calls out, a pause at the door and a wink.
And a whisper, "Cheer up, Christ."
Posted by rowan at June 21, 2003 09:43 PM
